two men, one of whom--that's
you, dear--carried me in his arms."

"Dear, dear," said Mr. Meekin.

"She was quite a baby," said Vickers, hastily, as though unwilling to
admit that her illness had been the cause of her forgetfulness.

"Oh, no; I was twelve years old," said Sylvia; "that's not a baby, you
know. But I think the fever made me stupid."

Frere, looking at her uneasily, shifted in his seat. "There, don't think
about it now," he said.

"Maurice," asked she suddenly, "what became of the other man?"

"Which other man?"

"The man who was with us; the other one, you know."

"Poor Bates?"

"No, not Bates. The prisoner. What was his name?"

"Oh, ah--the prisoner," said Frere, as if he, too, had forgotten.

"Why, you know, darling, he was sent to Port Arthur."

"Ah!" said Sylvia, with a shudder. "And is he there still?"

"I believe so," said Frere, with a frown.

"By the by," said Vickers, "I suppose we shall have to get that fellow
up for the trial. We have to identify the villains."

"Can't you and I do that?" asked Frere uneasily.

"I am afraid not. I wouldn't like to swear to a man after five years."

"By George," said Frere, "I'd swear to him! When once I see a man's
face--that's enough for me."

"We had better get up a few prisoners who were at the Harbour at the
time," said Vickers, as if wishing to terminate the discussion. "I
wouldn't let the villains slip through my fingers for anything."

"And are the men at Port Arthur old men?" asked Meekin.

"Old convicts," returned Vickers. "It's our place for 'colonial
sentence' men. The worst we have are there. It has taken the place of
Macquarie Harbour. What excitement there will be among them when the
schooner goes down on Monday!"

"Excitement! Indeed? How charming! Why?" asked Meekin.

"To bring up the witnesses, my dear sir. Most of the prisoners are
Lifers, you see, and a trip to Hobart Town is like a holiday for them."

"And do they never leave the place when sentenced for life?" said
Meekin, nibbling a biscuit. "How distressing!"

"Never, except when they die," answered Frere, with a laugh; "and then
they are buried on an island. Oh, it's a fine place! You should come
down with me and have a look at it, Mr. Meekin. Picturesque, I can
assure you."

"My dear Maurice," says Sylvia, going to the piano, as if in protest to
the turn the conversation was taking, "how can you talk like that?"

"I should much like to see it," said Meekin